Read Online Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict by Laurie Viera Rigler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Viera Rigler
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turns my stomach, if truth be told.”
“There are rather a lot of them.”
“And still they do not do their office, for as you can see, or shall I say, smell, the aroma herein is every bit as forthright as it was before your mother hid me away behind an indoor garden. And my desire to immerse myself in it remains undiminished.” He smiles sheepishly. “We all have our weaknesses.”
Don’t I know it. I have a rush of kindred feeling for Mr. M, whose shamefaced attachment to his painting and his studio reminds me of my own ungovernable addiction to Jane Austen novels. Like Mr. M, I indulge alone. None of my friends knows that most of the sick days I’ve taken from work are not sick days, but Austen days. None of my friends knows that the new best-seller they bought me for Christmas or my birthday has usually been put aside half-read because I needed to get back to Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility for the twentieth time.
Until recently, not one of my friends even knew that I had gone so far as to join an organization of other Austen addicts; i.e., the Jane Austen Society of North America. That is, until Paula noticed a JASNA newsletter, addressed to me, in my bedroom. She hooted with laughter at a photograph of some of the members in Regency dress at a meeting, and then stopped short when she saw my unsmiling face.
Not that I have ever once attended a meeting of my fellow addicts. I am too afraid of exposing myself to such a literary group, who would no doubt think me unworthy because my entrée to Austen was via Colin Firth prancing around in tight pants for the BBC. So what if I ran out and bought all the novels and read every single one before I saw another film adaptation. A woman with a Jane Austen action figure, still in the box no less (because the box is the best part), would surely be shunned by such scholarly folk.
The truth is, I am more concerned about being in the company of people whose eccentricities might even surpass mine than I am about their superior academic qualifications. I mean, after all, at their annual meetings they actually dance at Regency balls, many dressed in costume, no less. Would meeting such people in the flesh hold up a mirror to my addiction, and would I be afraid of what I saw? And what if—God forbid—I gave in to temptation and went to one of those balls myself? Would I not only be reading Austen in secret on sick days, but also find myself doing so in an empire-waisted muslin? Is all that self-conscious rejection and closeted longing—no pun intended—what landed me in this fractured-Austen-novel of a world?
“Jane?” Mr. M’s voice snaps me out of my tailspin; his face is filled with concern. “Are you quite all right, my dear?”
I muster a smile. “Oh, yes.”
Mr. M replaces the cover on his painting. “Do sit down for a minute, if you can bear it.” He motions to a chair. “So, Jane, it appears you have made a conquest of Mr. Edgeworth.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “I would hardly call it a conquest.”
“I know you, Jane. You are not the sort of girl who bestows her attentions idly. And there is a marked difference between your manners toward Mr. Edgeworth tonight and what I have observed on previous occasions.”
“Oh really?”
Mr. Mansfield peers at me over his glasses. “I daresay you are not joking me right now.”
“I would love to hear your perspective.”
He smiles. “I am quite fond of you, Jane. And I am not of a mind, as many parents are nowadays, to simply give a daughter in marriage to the highest bidder, without any regard to her feelings and wishes. Your mother may be well satisfied with your sister Clara’s marriage, but I am not. In truth, before I gave my consent I warned Clara against entering the marriage state without as great an affection for the man as she had for his fortune.”
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Do not affect to be shocked, my dear. You know this to be so.”
“But what does any
“There are rather a lot of them.”
“And still they do not do their office, for as you can see, or shall I say, smell, the aroma herein is every bit as forthright as it was before your mother hid me away behind an indoor garden. And my desire to immerse myself in it remains undiminished.” He smiles sheepishly. “We all have our weaknesses.”
Don’t I know it. I have a rush of kindred feeling for Mr. M, whose shamefaced attachment to his painting and his studio reminds me of my own ungovernable addiction to Jane Austen novels. Like Mr. M, I indulge alone. None of my friends knows that most of the sick days I’ve taken from work are not sick days, but Austen days. None of my friends knows that the new best-seller they bought me for Christmas or my birthday has usually been put aside half-read because I needed to get back to Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility for the twentieth time.
Until recently, not one of my friends even knew that I had gone so far as to join an organization of other Austen addicts; i.e., the Jane Austen Society of North America. That is, until Paula noticed a JASNA newsletter, addressed to me, in my bedroom. She hooted with laughter at a photograph of some of the members in Regency dress at a meeting, and then stopped short when she saw my unsmiling face.
Not that I have ever once attended a meeting of my fellow addicts. I am too afraid of exposing myself to such a literary group, who would no doubt think me unworthy because my entrée to Austen was via Colin Firth prancing around in tight pants for the BBC. So what if I ran out and bought all the novels and read every single one before I saw another film adaptation. A woman with a Jane Austen action figure, still in the box no less (because the box is the best part), would surely be shunned by such scholarly folk.
The truth is, I am more concerned about being in the company of people whose eccentricities might even surpass mine than I am about their superior academic qualifications. I mean, after all, at their annual meetings they actually dance at Regency balls, many dressed in costume, no less. Would meeting such people in the flesh hold up a mirror to my addiction, and would I be afraid of what I saw? And what if—God forbid—I gave in to temptation and went to one of those balls myself? Would I not only be reading Austen in secret on sick days, but also find myself doing so in an empire-waisted muslin? Is all that self-conscious rejection and closeted longing—no pun intended—what landed me in this fractured-Austen-novel of a world?
“Jane?” Mr. M’s voice snaps me out of my tailspin; his face is filled with concern. “Are you quite all right, my dear?”
I muster a smile. “Oh, yes.”
Mr. M replaces the cover on his painting. “Do sit down for a minute, if you can bear it.” He motions to a chair. “So, Jane, it appears you have made a conquest of Mr. Edgeworth.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “I would hardly call it a conquest.”
“I know you, Jane. You are not the sort of girl who bestows her attentions idly. And there is a marked difference between your manners toward Mr. Edgeworth tonight and what I have observed on previous occasions.”
“Oh really?”
Mr. Mansfield peers at me over his glasses. “I daresay you are not joking me right now.”
“I would love to hear your perspective.”
He smiles. “I am quite fond of you, Jane. And I am not of a mind, as many parents are nowadays, to simply give a daughter in marriage to the highest bidder, without any regard to her feelings and wishes. Your mother may be well satisfied with your sister Clara’s marriage, but I am not. In truth, before I gave my consent I warned Clara against entering the marriage state without as great an affection for the man as she had for his fortune.”
He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Do not affect to be shocked, my dear. You know this to be so.”
“But what does any
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